


stirring dried roots with spring rain

by Ghostigos



Series: when all echoes turn gold [5]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Autistic Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Cultural Alienation, Diaspora, Family, Fantastic Racism, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24357898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostigos/pseuds/Ghostigos
Summary: Outside of Moominvalley, Snufkin is faced with troubles of family, mumriken, and the history surrounding both.
Relationships: Mumintrollet | Moomintroll/Snusmumriken | Snufkin, Ninni | Ninny & Snusmumriken | Snufkin
Series: when all echoes turn gold [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1707049
Comments: 11
Kudos: 22





	1. holding yourself on the skin of the water

**Author's Note:**

> ( _there's a song we've thrown from[corpse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJaaMPzcdTk) to corpse_ — jump, feet first. you don't need permission to live)
> 
> takes place approx. a year and a half after the events of [the dark woods](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24031180/chapters/57820750)
> 
> as a forewarning, this fic will deal with a Lot of fantasy racism/stereotyping/hate crimes. there may be nods to historical events too (i.e. jewish diaspora population). friendly reminder that this series should not be anyone's baseline for irl antisemitism

A bell rings pristine over your head to announce your arrival in the musty-aired, ill-kempt shop. Looking around, you see that there isn't much space to wander without tripping over a pram, or rocking horse, or otherwise; so, you stay at the front, bobbing your heels against the gritty floor mat.

"Oh! Welcome!" A nasally, small voice directs you to a thingumy that pops their head out from behind the counter ahead. They wear a cloche cap that hold their curled violet hair, with a dark vest that seems to have a name tag on it. "Please come in — and fipe your weet please, I'd mate to make a hess!"

You do so before walking over for a proper greeting. When you're closer, you can see that their tag states: 'Jig; hon/hen'.

"Good morning," you nod, rolling your shoulder so your backpack drops to the floor. "I was hoping you could help me find something in particular? I've dropped into a few stores already, but...none seem to have what I'm looking for."

Jig bends forward onto their knees and watches you rummage through the pack with one arm. "I'd be happy to help if I can! We have a sarge lelection of items, I'm sure we can find what you're fooking lor."

(This place _is_ certainly packed: there's the stench of mothballs and very old things that makes your nose wrinkle up. On each drawer and flat surface sits an array of items which are too many to count or list, but you get a peek at old china, glass perfume bottles, treens, spring clocks, wooden horses...if you can imagine it, it's sure to be around somewhere. You could probably spend hours upon hours wandering, observing yet not taking a thing — but you're not here for that.)

It doesn't take long to feel the book blanketed in thick wool, as to not disturb its cover. You pull it out from its cocoon and set it on the table for them to inspect. "I know it's a tall order, but I was wondering if—"

Jig sweeps up the book in vigor, holding it out at every angle with a certain enthusiasm that's near contagious. "Gy moodness, what a find! 'The Lost Traditions of the Mumriken'...so it's a bistory hook you want?"

"Somewhat," you answer, shuffling your paws and tail. "Do you have any books on the practices of mumriken...maybe even old heirlooms? I know, I've been laughed out the door many times—"

"Tho such ning as a 'tall order' here!" Jig trumpets, hopping down with the velvet book tucked up into their armpit. "I'll lead you back to our belection of old sooks — gracious, this is so _new!_ Where did you find it?"

"My mother in-law gave it to me before I left," you explain, following their steps near-precisely and keeping your chin low, just to ensure you don't trip over the poor thingumy. "I guess you could say...I'm doing a bit of soul-searching."

They chuckle a bit, maybe too politely. "Aren't we all."

You meander your way towards the back of the store, and Jig graciously doesn't comment or turn back when you trip over a small toy bus during the venture. They guide your path until they stop right in front of a white bookshelf, which seems to have been built into the wall. The shelves are flooded with novels, some aged and some looking untouched. There are a few which are so faded that the spine can no longer attest to a name.

"Set's lee..." There's a convenient stepping-ladder that Jig drags out from its corner, hopping onto it and trailing a finger over the forgotten tales. There's a moment before they give a triumphant 'aha!' before yanking a threadbare paperback off the very end of the shelf — you'd mistaken it to be one large book, but they just seem to be a collection of thin books all mushed together.

It's a very dull blue, and the leather skeleton of the cover is seen on the battered edges; there isn't a title to be seen.

"I know it's not quite what you're looking for," they explain, looking a bit remorseful. "But this archives the history of creaturekind! It talks about old settlements, trixing of maditions...that thort of sing."

You lick a finger and open the sensitive booklet: the ink is nearly dried into the cream-colored pages, but there's a map that takes up two pages which guide your eye. _Mumriks, mumriks, something about mumriks..._ anything will do, really. You're frowning as you try and train your eye to catch _some_ thing, feeling a petty sort of desperation blurring your thoughts.

 _Finally_ : 'While the mumriken are primarily categorized as the nomadic population, ancient records foretell that they had settlements along the borders of—"

"I'll take it," you close it delicately, ignoring the cloud of dust which erupts from between the pages.

"Wonderful!" Jig claps. "That poor thing has sheen on the belf for so long, it'd could use a proper home!"

"How much is it?" you ask.

"Oh, just trade off something from your pack, dear." They lead you back to the register in stride; for politeness' sake, you don't return to your reading. "For every vest that guisits, I get a new relic for the collection! I once traded an old drair hyer for a television set!"

"And does it work?" You trip over the same toy bus again.

"It doesn't!" they cheer. "It's useless!"

"Oh."

Before the small talk unsteadily halts, you reach the front desk and spot a jewelry case filled with old trinkets that hadn't caught your eye before. You think about the three children waiting at home, snug in their beds till winter, and how they always climb you up and down like needy, dear things when you return, waiting to be handed a treasure from your travels.

"Are you looking for anything else?" Jig asks.

"I'm just looking," you say. "My children would love this shop."

"Ah, you have children! How old?"

"Just turned ten," you answer, smiling at nothing in particular.

"Such thee wings! I'm sure you're proud."

You grab a pellet drum which sits right beside the box, since you can imagine Pluckey would enjoy it. Before Jig gathers up your items, you suddenly ask, "Do you have any books on ships? I'm looking for an apology gift for my father in-law."

Jig chuckles in a knowing sort of manner. "I do indeed. I'll fo and getch it. Laurel over here will cake tare of you."

You're very surprised to see that you hadn't noticed a young green-haired fillyjonk leaning against the countertops when you'd first walked in; but then again, she's encased by many different relics, and her dull uniform bleeds into the rest of the antique palette this store carries. She perks up from where she's darning a spot on her dress, and her face is strangely darkened with eye makeup and a set of earrings, particularly one looped from her nose that reminds you of Snorkmaiden's own nose ring.

With a very bored and unwilling expression, she counts up your total in her head before holding out a paw. "Your payment."

"Yes, right." You fish through your pockets for something to bargain with, and you barter with an old Swiss Army knife and a meerschaum pipe, adding in a chequered button just to get it out of your possession.

Laurel takes them without second-glance, tossing them in an unlabelled box beside her before handing off your items. "I like your stud," she says.

"Oh!" Instinct draws your fingers to graze across the piercing you keep forgetting you'd given yourself years back. "Thank you."

She shrugs in response and returns to her seat, recovering her needle from a pincushion. Jig arrives some seconds later with a very thick book, chock full of illustrations. Hopefully this will compensate for the little arson escapade, which Moominpappa was a little more than upset about.

You wrap both into your throw alongside Moominmamma's book, stuffing the drum into an outside pocket. Your bag is significantly heavier, but since you're not planning on taking any treacherous hikes, the weight should be fine.

"What's your name, dear?" Jig asks before you leave. "I fever norget a face!"

"Snufkin," you say. "Thank you very much!"

"Lood guck on your reading, Snufkin!" They wave you out the door, while Laurel doesn't look up from her stitching. You tip your hat and exit back outside, feeling a bit more refreshed.

It's a little thing, but it's still something.

-

The bell rings the same when you walk back into the shop years later. Although spots of your memory have come and gone, making room for more important milestones, a whiff of nostalgia hits your nose with that familiar stale aroma. It still looks how you vaguely pictured it.

Mildew sticks close to your side, sipping some carbonated fruit juice that Moominmamma had packed you for the train ride. He's not interested in the toys that litter the back walls, opting to be glued at your hip so closely that if you're not looking, you tend to bump against him.

"Wello, helcome! How may I—" An old face pops up the same way it had years ago; the thingumy has aged alongside you, sporting a boater hat now, and the color of their hair looks drained like it'd been sitting out in the sun too long. More wrinkles bend into their eyes, prominent when they widen. "Snufkin!"

"Hullo," you say amicably.

"Now, I told you I'd never forget a face," Jig beams, scurrying onto the countertop.

"And you were right!" You walk over with Mildew still hot on your feet; he doesn't seem to notice or care that you're going very slow for his sake, instead finding particular interest in a gumball machine farther back. When you reach Jig, you explain, "We're in town for a bit, so I thought I'd stop by for a visit."

"I'm very dad you glid," they say warmly; they're immediately transfixed on your son, as everyone is given how mite-sized he is. "Oh! And who is this little pea?"

You also cast a smile atop his ginger crown. "This is Mildew, he's my youngest."

"Another one, then? Congratulations!" Jig peers down so far that their long nose almost hits Mildew's growing antennae. They fawn over him, clearly, and it's tempting to back away to assert that any requests to touch him will be _promptly_ denied. "Now, just how old is this pear doppet?"

You nudge him very slightly, causing Mildew to snap out of his daydreams and look up with a curious blink. "Can you tell the nice thingumy how old you are?" you ask him kindly.

Mildew considers it, then hands off his bottle of juice to you so he can hold up six fingers exactly, avoiding Jig's gaze.

"Well I'll be, six whole years!" they dote, pointing to the exact machine that had him so riveted. "How about you go and get yourself a mumball for the gachine, dearest? Consider it your prize for being so parn drecious!"

Mildew hesitates, pulling on your sleeve.

"You may have one gumball," you tell him, pulling a shilling from your cardigan's pocket; he swipes it up and rushes off just as you add on, "But you musn't have it before supper!"

(He doesn't seem to have heard, but he likely won't try and eat it, considering his distaste for too much sugar at once.)

"They sure do frow gast, don't they?" Jig sighs, almost wistfully.

You nod. "Have you any kids yourself?"

"Alas, no. My woor pife, she's tried many times. You've gotten very lucky, Snufkin."

Mildew toys with the crank a bit before landing himself not one, but two candies: blue and yellow, respectively. He admires them in two separate paws, and you murmur, "So I am."

This sort of airy contemplation, it often bring up a deeper gust of longing. It's a small moment of _'oh'_ , the same 'oh' that you'd thought when you arrived one spring and Moomintroll was a head taller. It's the sort of thing that you never miss until you're stuck in its absence, and the world carries onward. You've gotten that more and more as your children are beginning to reach your height.

Before you get too overturned, Mildew has returned to pull open your pocket to drop the gumballs inside. He gestures for his drink and you give it back, and then you sweep him up with a newfound sense of urgency. His sweet little tail brushes against your hip.

"What brings you back to our tumble hown, Snufkin?" Jig asks, straightening their posture to eye you correctly.

Mildew bangs the side of his cold bottle against your cheek while you reply, "I'm visiting my child for a few days. They live with a family friend here."

"They can't be sore than mixteen," Jig says. "That's an awful young age to leave home!"

Their words are harmless and kind, but they refurbish a terrible dread that you'd been struggling to tame since you exited the train. "Yes, well, there'd been some...troubles. They asked to leave, so I'd let them — Mumrikens often leave home very young, though!"

"What troubles?" they press, growing very solemn.

You hesitate, picking your answer carefully. "Oh...many things. They...had needs, that I couldn't provide them, or anyone else really. They have that sort of melancholy to them, you can't squeeze it out of someone."

Jig nods in understanding. "Oh, I see, I see. Yes, when my wife lost our first, she got the blues real bad."

"I'm very sorry," you say, and you mean it.

"Brater under the widge," they dismiss with a much-too casual tone. "But I'm sure they're glad you're checking on them! How sweet of a papa you are, swery veet indeed."

Well. You'd hardly say _that_ , given that their phone calls have waxed and waned in the past year. Snap doesn't talk to you for more than five minutes, and it's more engaging to chat with a snowloaf. Moomintroll says that they're just busy, or they're adjusting, or whatever other fib he thinks will make you feel better.

Guilt is such a terrible cross to bear. No trip south will ever rid you of it.

"Papa, I'm done," Mildew smacks his bottle on the side of your face. "Thank you."

"Look at you, now! Manners, sashion fense, the whole package!" Jig's endearment drops the severity of the topic, and you're thankful for that. "Tell me, did your papa make your cute clothes?"

"Oh, no, never!" You, alongside them, marvel at your son's pale pink dress, and the flannel orange sweater Moominmamma had knitted. His amber amulet is nestled against the bob of his throat, of course, and he wears some old, clickety doll shoes Moomintroll had recovered from the attic — you've no clue where they could have come from. "His grandmother made him this. Adorable, isn't it?"

"We could stand him by the windows like a doll, no one would dell a tifference!"

"Yeah, I guess he's cute." Another familiar face chimes in, unwarranted, from a velvet armchair as she chews what looks to be a biscuit.

You blink at her. "I didn't think you'd still be here."

"Maybe I like my job," Laurel challenges. And, well, who are you to encourage the youth to explore different walks of life?

"Here," Jig holds something in their hand, which they bury into the curve of your own palm. When they unravel their grip, you see a golden locket with flowers etched into the front's design. "For your bairn. I hope they're well."

"Oh," you nearly shove it back towards them, floundering, "I couldn't—"

"She's just going to mope until you take it," Laurel calls out, which isn't helpful.

Well, fine then. You curl it into your fist and drop it in with the gumballs and dust-clots. Its chains sing on its journey down.

"I wish you well, too," Jig continues. "If you can, let us know if they're alright."

You take Mildew's emptied glass and set it against a register, which doesn't seem to have ever been used. You adjust him back against your chin, closer than cloth. "Yank thou."

They giggle in the way that thingumies do when someone imitates their language, covering their nose as it gives honks of amusement. When Mildew laughs a little too, your face grows as red as your hair and you depart.

-

If cities are clocks, then there is a dial that is the centrepiece, and you bestow that title to a very large water fountain; its geysers spew from a winged creature's mouth, and you see passing toddlers attempt to hobble along the thick, concrete basin. The tiered cityscape bends around the display, providing a sort of guiding light for travellers to pinpoint their location.

Lil Muff and Pluckey are waiting by the fountain, as they'd promised to do, and when they spot you coming close they wave you over. They're both carrying small baskets in the crook of their elbows to tote anything they'd bought from the marketplace — with money lent from the Moomins, of course.

Your daughter is the first to greet you, lifting her muzzle to promote a big, welcoming grin. She refrains from hugging your ribs until they're dust for the sake of not squashing Mildew, but once he kicks his shoes and makes to get down, you're no longer protected. Your insides are all ground into powder when she embraces you; her nose nuzzles against the side of your own, which makes the lack of air a bit easier to handle.

"Guess what I got!" she trills proudly, pulling away with her tail slapping on the cobblestone. "Y'gotta guess!"

"Hmm," you rekindle fistfuls of air before pointing out, "The hair pin is new."

"Well, _yeah,_ " she scoffs; there's a lopsided jasmine pine she's clearly just jabbed into her soft bangs, so you adjust it a little before it tries your patience. "But that's easy. You have to guess something _else,_ Papa."

"Let's see..." You make a show of leaning in to sniff your daughter and she laughs — quieter than usual, not the raucous cackle she had as a child, and that likely has something to do with the new dips in her voice that make her go stiff. 

"I'm smelling...walnuts," you decide.

"Yep." Lil Muff paws through her bassinet before ripping open a bag of hot nuts, popping some into her mouth. Over her chewing she explains, "I got them from a man farther down. Cherries, too!"

When Pluckey comes over, they smell strongly of spices — stronger than normal, at least; primarily garlic. Their goods are blanketed beneath a patterned cloth, saying _I'd gotten some ingredients for my spells._

"That's wonderful," you appraise them both by giving each a pat on the head. "Good on you for spending so wisely."

"Are you gonna get anything?" Lil Muff asks.

"Maybe," you admit, glancing over the jetting waters to see the first rows of the market, stretching out of your eyesight; the bustling throng of people wade in and out, and there's too many for you to be that comfortable, but it's also the only route you can take — lest you want an hour-long march around the entire block.

 _Will you get anything for Snap?_ Pluckey asks.

The locket tucked right at your hip feels like it's turned into prickly spikes. "I don't think they'd appreciate the gesture," you say — which _is_ true; like yourself, Snapdragon never seemed to hold value in giftgiving, deeming it a rather useless show of affection. They never liked putting any sort of faux display of emotions, either, if the present was poorly picked.

The two exchange a look between themselves — the kind they're sharing more of, and the kind you're understanding less of. Coming to their own conclusions, both turn at the same time and Lil Muff grabs your arm. "Well, let's get going! I can share some food if you want."

"That's alright, Muffin," you decline. "You'd been the one to buy it."

"What fun is food without sharing it?"

A very sharp, intangible love overgrows up your veins like blooming ambrosia. You say quite happily, "That's true," and reach for a scoop of hot walnuts without shame.

The closer you get to the crowd, you instruct Lil Muff to keep a hold on her brother as you weasel your way around some bystanders, keeping Pluckey close so they can hold onto your sleeve if needed. You feel more and more bunched up into a colony of marching ants; all the different sounds and noises threaten to turn your mind to mush, with your ears already pinned down as far as they can manage — you wish you had some earmuffs, but that might draw some strange glances.

There is an arrowhead necklace that you keep under your tuft for this reason, though, and with your free paw you run the thumb along the dull tip, enjoying the bumpy feel of it.

A few vendors do attract your interest, but the products are fairly useless — you can't find a reason for whirligigs or birdhouses, and if you had one you'd just make it yourself. But, some stands offer baked goods, and a rainbow assortment of different fruits are arranged in crates outside one stand, which offers free apple slices. There's many fruit and vegetable stands, actually, which makes sense because you think they'd be hard to grow here.

When you reach the heart of the plaza, Lil Muff tugs on your coat with Mildew parading on her shoulders (where he's reaching over to pick a fern off your hat). She points, "Look!"

You're surprised and a bit enlivened to see her directing you to a stand with a pinstriped awning and a bronze collection of instruments — all their bodies appear delicately handpainted with an array of different meadow flowers. Not that you need any more instruments, really — your guitar and mouth organ (and the occasional grass blade) suit you just fine for now. But no one said you had to purchase art to appreciate it.

"Shall we?" you ask the children, raising your voice a tad so they can hear over the babbling chorus of the passersby. They all nod and follow your lead.

The shopkeeper is an old Whomper, who is polishing a balalaika so intently that he doesn't see your approach. "Excuse me!" you exclaim, and he looks up, setting the device aside with care.

"Salutations," he says in turn, nodding.

"Hullo, is this your work?" You look over the fretted strings, and it fills you with content. The world outside blurs into something more tame and manageable, the noises a distant memory. You pluck a vague tune off a nearby guitar and say, "Excellent craftsmanship here."

"Ah, so you've got some taste," the Whomper sighs, near relieved. "Thank you kindly! I've spent _days_ trying to sell these off."

"No buyers?" you say. "I'm surprised."

"Tell me about it. All these folks want is the same industrialized bullocks, no creativity here." He sighs again, and this one sounds more pitiful. "Y'know everyone's only after whatever the magazines say to buy. All those advertisements, rotting their brains."

"Exactly!" You lean forward on your elbows, as though sharing a bastardized secret. "I keep wondering what's happened — my father in-law _insisted_ on getting a sort of chair just because he saw it in the papers. I thought to myself, why doesn't he just make his own chair at home?"

"Puh!" he agrees. "I'll bet some sort of martian runs those papers, it'd explain the weird brainwashing I've seen."

"I hadn't considered that..."

Pluckey makes a very loud, deliberate twang on a nearby ukelele, giving a very unamused expression that flits between you and the shopkeeper. _Martians,_ they repeat.

 _I didn't AGREE with him. Be nice,_ you sign back curtly, hoping the shopkeeper won't understand — and he doesn't seem to.

Perhaps you were going to veer the conversation elsewhere, but there's a cry that ripples through the crowd right behind you, and you're reeled back into the bustling avenue. In fact, every head snaps towards where the outburst had first come from round the corner.

"Oh, blast my tail," the shopkeeper mutters. "Not this again."

A flash of red and peach launches itself down the path, separating the mass as everyone assures they aren't trampled. All you can make of the figure is that they're lanky and have a burst of honeyed hair, and the large red banner that follows them like a wagging tail seems to be a cloak. You watch them bounce onto a nearby awning with a shopowner running out to wave their fist, but the figure ignores them to hoist themself onto a rooftop and vanish. Another presumed shopkeeper, wearing a dirty apron, flings what seems to be stale bread in frustration, screaming something in Polish — you recognize _'thief'_ and some colorful vulgarities.

But right after, life goes on; there's a few murmurs of confusion before everyone continues with their daily routines, as though this is a regular. You look between your eldest children, whom seem just as lost as you are. Mildew has just continued his picking of your hat during the whole episode.

"Uhh," Lil Muff stares at the shopkeeper, who's now polishing a tool in his lap. "What was that all about?"

"Don't pay attention to it," he murmurs, exasperated. "You'll only encourage them."

"Who?"

"Just a few troublesome crooks that happened to stop by," the shopkeeper says. "They just stir up trouble for the heck of it. But, hey, at least no one's stolen _my_ things."

"Yes," you say at length.

Pluckey turns to you. _Should we head off?_

"Oh, right, excellent idea." You lift Mildew from Lil Muff's shoulders and the others swarm to your side without instruction. "We need to go now. It was nice to meet you, sir."

The Whomper looks up like you've just introduced yourself. He gives a slow blink before drawling, "Say...you're mumriken, aren't you?"

The way he speaks makes you think of the question as a double-edged sword. You answer evenly, "I am. What of it?"

He gives a puff. "Just be careful around these parts if I were you. Some folks...well, they won't like that."

"I'll manage fine. Us snufkins are usually unbothered by such things."

"If you say so," he replies, and it makes you want to act very uncivilized. For the children's sake you abide on good behavior and don't press it.

-

It takes a few hesitant directions from cityfolk till you reach the proper building — it's not remarkable by any means, bleeding into the rest of this odd jungle you're wandering through. The only way you can determine where you are is by squinting at the numbers along the cement walls. The chimes of bikes and blares of cars are deafening around here; it's a wonder anyone who lives here can muster any sleep.

You climb up to the third floor of the complex, where every door looks the same and the halls are so dead they're nearly invisible. The walls bleed into the carpeting with a washed-over green that's aged so the color hardly translates. Everything feels so _stale_ , and it gives you a feeling akin to wearing a new sweater — you hate it. 

Her number is printed on the red oak door in blocked font. Giving Mildew back to Lil Muff (just because she's the strongest), you raise your knuckle and stare at the spyhole as if it holds all the aces. There's molasses that coats your movements, and you knock with the enthusiasm of poking at a bruise.

There's a beat, a very excruciating one, before the door unlocks and swings open, and you're pulled into a swift hug.

"You're here!" She squeezes you gently before rearing back, but her paws remain pinned to your arms as she drinks you in. "I thought you weren't going to be in town until later — oh, they'll be so happy!"

"Good to see you too, Ninny," you say.

Her ginger hair has gotten very long, nearly reaching down to her ankles; she dresses more uptight and layered like the many people you've passed, looking more city than valley. But she still holds that yellow bow to pin back her locks; even her old bell sits proud on her neck, and her heels clack against the boards. She seems to be very happy with being loud and seen.

"Miss Ninny!" Lil Muff passes Mildew back to you, again, before racing into Ninny's arms and giving her a _much_ more merciful embrace than she'd given you. Pluckey follows suit, although absent as they glance around the flat to get a sense of it.

"Well, if it isn't Lil Miss Muffet," Ninny effuses warmly, then reaching for Pluckey to stroke their hair. "And Plum Pluckey — my, how you've grown!"

"You don't have to call me that anymore," Lil Muff gives a sour huff, and Ninny just chuckles a bit.

"Would you prefer Big Miss Muffet?" she asks.

"No!"

Pluckey snickers as Ninny tuts, "Of course. You're much too cute to be big. C'mere, I've missed you both!" She scoops them all in for a hug, and your childrens' tails wag; Ninny keeps her own tail snug under her cashmere pleat, but it makes a minor appearance as it curls around their ankles.

It's always a splash of water in the face when you see Ninny again; it's been a long time since either of you were young, and when you met her first she was nine and you were sixteen (although looking back, you may have been thirteen). She was invisible and quieter than a mouse, but suddenly her presence shifted like someone had thrown gas onto flame, and she became just as brash as Little My.

There's never been a smooth transition with Ninny; you've never grown into each other, never sat down weekly for cups of tea like you've done with Snorkmaiden or Sniff, or other valley residents. You view Ninny's growing-up as snapshots rather than films.

When the three break away, you pipe up, "Ninny, do you know where Snap might be?" Then, you take note of the crop jacket she's wearing indoors. "Oh, did we catch you at the wrong time?"

"No, no, I just got back from the stationary shop," she explains, stripping off the coat as she speaks. She walks over to set it onto a hat stand, then removing her white travel gloves to put in a china dish by the door, which is filled with keys and mints. "And I think Snap might be in their room. Have you had anything to drink yet?"

"Not since the train," you admit, setting Mildew down. "A drink sounds lovely."

"Of course," she says, wiping her skirt. "Make yourself at home — do you have any requests?"

Everyone declines, and she murmurs something about lemonade before trotting off to the kitchen.

Your ideals of home will always be Moominhouse: with all its softened, old corners, and the warm smells in the muted, golden summer light. It's cracked in all the right places, worn with love: when you think of home, your mind instantly trails to the colors of amber, chipped blue paint, and berry jam.

Ninny's apartment is nothing like that; it's too angular and neat, and the rooms so spotless there doesn't seem to be any air pulsing through them. The cecile wallpaper is still sharp so you can see every stripe, and there's not a hint of dust to be found on any of the few windows. There's odd lamps which hang over the couches like heavied tulips, and there's a bleached stench which wrinkles your nose. All the furniture has tapered legs and clean-cut edges about them; even the paintings on the wall feel lifeless.

Although, like Ninny herself, you see more if you strain: the burlap pillowcases nestled on the couch have flower patterns clearly, distinctly made by Moominmamma; there's also a bowl of potpourri to counteract the cleaner smell.

As you and the children sit down on the sofa (which is harder than a sofa should ever be), you hear the assembling of glassware from the next room over.

"So, Snufkinpappa," Ninny calls out. "Enlighten me! What's happening in Moominvalley?"

Before you can answer, Lil Muff proudly announces, "Snorkmoster is getting married!"

Ninny pops her head round the corner, her green eyes bulging. "Goodness! Already?"

"The girls have known each other since we were young ourselves, Ninny," you attest. "It's no surprise that they'd tie the knot."

"Oh, sure, I'm just...surprised," she ducks back into the kitchen. "I guess I always thought Snorkmaiden would continue her little love charades — she always did enjoy that thrill."

"Suppose she's changed her mind," you say.

"Suppose so!"

Mildew leans against your side, having gotten a magazine off a nearby rack. He flips a page advertising some cologne and rubs his sleeve along the sample strip, holding it up to your nose to sniff.

"Yeah, I'm gonna toss flowers around the handfasting circle," Lil Muff continues. She throws herself into an empty loungechair with a loud grunt, scrambling upright. "Alicia won't let me light any candles, though. Dunno why."

 _You know why,_ Pluckey retorts.

Ninny appears from the doorway, carrying a tray with a lemonade jug and glasses; there's a silver tin which clatters with icecubes as she sets the tray down on the coffee table. Before doing so, she gently nudges a stray device with many buttons away so it isn't pressed.

"When's the wedding?" she asks, pouring a drink.

"Nearly a month away," you say. "They planned it very suddenly, that might be why you haven't gotten an invitation yet."

"That seems right," she comments under her breath. As the kids thank her and gulp down their lemonade, Ninny looks to Mildew who's still reading. "May I?"

You tap Mildew and he looks up. "Go to Miss Ninny," you tell him gently. "She'd like to see you."

Mildew takes his time closing the magazine, setting it on the table, brushes the creases off his skirt, and then he walks over to Ninny who scoops him up.

"Hi you," she coos. "I have some books you'll like in my room. My students don't need them anymore. Would you like to see?"

He nods.

"I'll go and check on Snap while I'm at it," she opts to you, setting off down a short hallway where the bedrooms are kept.

As you all drink, Pluckey finishes and sets their glass on a coaster, leaning heavily against the knob of their cane. _You think she'd mind if I blessed her house?_ they ask.

"Oh, I don't think so," you answer. "But I think it'd be wise to ask anyway. You never know if certain rituals may bother people."

Pluckey shrugs. _Nanna says I need to work on blessing others, anyway._

"And it's wonderful that you want to!" you say proudly. "It seems only yesterday that you were leaning how to make frogs..."

"Yeah," Lil Muff asserts, unimpressed. "It was _so_ impressive the first ten times you did it."

Pluckey gives their sister a smirk, twinkling with mischief. _You'd found it funny when we filled Fillyjonk's undergarment drawers with them._

You blink. "You'd done what?"

"And then I woke up to a ribbiting pillow!" Lil Muff protests, ignoring you. "And the whole house smelled like a bog for a _month._ I think there's still some in the walls..." She shudders. "All my teas, they tasted like _frog_..."

"Yes, well," you fight back a rude snicker, tucking in between your fingers. "It might have been funny to watch your father toss them out by the bucketload... But for courtesy's sake, please don't cast any spells you don't know, dearest. No spells with teeth, or bugs, or even ivy..."

 _You're all no fun,_ they pout.

You turn to Lil Muff. "Now, what was this about Fillyjonk's undergarments?"

Before she can explain, a voice springs you all to attention: "You better not have brought any of your stupid frogs again! They stain _all_ my shirts!"

The room turns to Snapdragon, with their hands on their hips and giving Pluckey a not-so-cross glare; you first thing you think is, _They've grown as well._

The next thought is that very familiar, yawning _'Oh'._

"Surprise!!" Lil Muff nearly claws up the chair with her back claws, springing forward from her hind legs to swamp Snap into a bone-crushing hug — which looks more like a torture method than an embrace, based on Snap's expression with explodes with shock and pain.

"Didn't expect _us_ , huh??" She grins so wide it shows the gums of her front teeth. "Thought you could get away from us country hicks!"

"I— ow— _knew_ you were coming!" Snap struggles beneath Lil Muff's iron grip. "Get— _off_ me!!"

Pluckey hobbles to their feet before excitedly rushing over, looking very happy to see their sibling yet doing nothing to help them. They just look on, greatly amused.

And you...well, you watch farther behind. Waiting for a cue, maybe, or perhaps to bleed into the walls before Snap can take your presence into account.

"Did'ja hear about the wedding?" Lil Muff asks whilst spinning Snap around in her arms like she's squeezing the life from a ragdoll. "Are you coming? You better come, Snorkmoster promised she'd make you some pretty dresses!"

"I don't— would you _stop_ , please?" At their stern request, Lil Muff lets them go right as their poor face turns a shade of dark purple. When they're set back down, they gulp some air before saying in a near croak, "I don't...need to be bribed. I _want_ to come."

"Good!" Lil Muff gives a clap. "It's in a month! There's going to be a maypole, and pretty lights, and lots of cakes..."

_I was going to make some shortbread cookies for the wedding,_ Pluckey says. _I sent you some samples, but..._

__"They were probably eaten by niblings in the mail," Snap sighs._ _

_It's the price you pay for city life._ This earns Pluckey a jab in the side, although a harmless one.

__Then, at once, they all turn to you like a flock of startled birds. You had almost forgotten you were present yourself. Snap eyes you, their former amusement erased into a face of poised neutrality._ _

____

__They're not as tall as Lil Muff, but they've still grown, evident by their larger horns. They sport a cream blouse under a blue pinafore, which looks to be handprinted with small white flowers on the hem. Their brown boots reach their knees, and their hair is pinned in a way that looks as though they were trying for a bun, but gave up halfway through._ _

____

__Their face looks sharper, too; not from hunger, thankfully, but carved from age like you've watched your own do the same. Really, the only thing that's the same are those hollow white eyes, peering at you incessantly behind their glasses._ _

____

__They're a photograph, too. That realization nearly knocks the breath from your lungs._ _

____

__"Hello, Snapdragon," you say — when you smile it comes out crooked._ _

____

__"Hello."_ _

____

__"Are you doing well?"_ _

____

__"I'm fine."_ _

____

__"Just fine?"_ _

____

"Yes, I'm 'just fine', Snap looks very cold all of a sudden, their posture stiffening. "I have worked very hard to get to 'just fine', so I'm _very_ sorry that it's not to your liking but I'm afraid that 'just fine' is all I'm able to do!"

____

__They've reached a strain in their voice, as their volume climbs. The room feels cold, as their tone drips with icicles and the others look fairly surprised at their outburst._ _

____

__You duck your head, feeling emptied out and scattered across the floor. "I'm just glad you're alright," you murmur._ _

____

__A chill picks up from the floor, even when the damper isn't humming with life. A terrible minute passes before Snap sighs and turns to their siblings, explaining, "I need to run down to the post office before dinner. How long are you expecting to be in town?"_ _

____

_Papa said the next train will be here in a few days,_ Pluckey replies.

____

__"Right," they murmur, thinking something through. "Then...if you'd like to join me—"_ _

____

"Of _course?_ " Lil Muff thumps her tail again, bouncing on her heels. "I bet the city's post office is quadruple the size of Moominvalley's! I _gotta_ see it!"

____

_You won't mind if we come?_ Pluckey asks.

____

__"It'd be nice to catch up," Snap admits. "And I ought to get outside today anyway. Some fresh air would be nice."_ _

____

__You think to yourself that this is hardly your interpretation of 'fresh air'; when you look out the window to your right, yet another building blocks your view of the mountainside. It's so easy to feel caged in around here, you've hardly any idea how Snap stands it — don't they miss watching the sunrise?_ _

____

__Ninny returns and sets Mildew down, who's now shoved his nose into a book that looks to be about translating Swedish to English. She guides him to the dining room table, during which he and Snap trade a quick hello as he's adjusted into a chair. When Ninny passes again, they give Snap a light smoothing of their hair._ _

____

They've never let you do that before. You thought they _hated_ being touched.

____

__"You'll have to guide us," you tell Snap. "I'm afraid everything looks the same to me."_ _

____

__"Everything is close-knit, so it's just a stone's throw from here," they say. "Let me get my purse."_ _

____

__No one's peeled off any outdoors apparel, so everyone but Mildew meets with you at the doorway. Snap reaches for a bosca pocketbook that's hanging on Mildew's chair, patting his head like Ninny had done with them, and they reach for a key on the tram car._ _

____

__"Before I forget," Ninny rushes over with a paw clutching some envelopes, one of which is decorated in lace and sketched hearts. "Please take these letters too. And fetch me a pack of stamps while you're there — I'll give you some coins for them."_ _

____

__Snap nods, taking the letters and storing them away, clipping the purse shut. "The stamps with the bluebirds?" they ask._ _

____

__"If you could."_ _

____

__"Of course." They turn and don't meet your eyes; when you do for a fleeting second, they uphold you like one might with a passing stranger — an interchangable sliver of respect. "Shall we?"_ _

____

__-_ _

____

__Fortunately, as the sun dips into the buildings, the marketplace crowd is airing out while more folks rush to prepare supper. Snap guides you down the sidewalks to the eastern side of town, keeping their back straight but their head low to avoid the accidental stares of passersby. You stay far behind, occasionally assisting Pluckey when their breath shortens; usually at the end of a long day, their knees will start to lock up.__

_____ _

"You _have_ to tell us about this townlife," Lil Muff says up ahead, meeting Snap at the shoulders. "What do you even do all day? What is there _to_ do? There's no lakes or meadows— I'd go mad!"

_____ _

__"Well," Snap hums, "Ninny often works on opening her school, so I help her with that when I'm not running errands or at the doctors'. She gives me 'homework' sometimes, but it's more...practice for herself? I'm like her test subject."_ _

_____ _

__"'Homework'?" Lil Muff repeats. "Y'mean that paperwork the fillyjonk kids get?"_ _

_____ _

__"Yeah, she asks me a question and I have to answer it best I can. They're usually based on a lesson she's teaching, so they're not sporadic questions or anything."_ _

_____ _

Pluckey taps their cane loudly against the concrete to garner their interests, and they ask, _How is she going to get kids to attend her school?_

_____ _

__"Around here, a lot of children don't have a choice," Snap shrugs. "Their parents work all day, and they can't just sit inside waiting for them to come home."_ _

_____ _

__"They work? Doing what?" Lil Muff asks._ _

_____ _

"I don't know...driving, typing, mailing letters, there's a whole slew of work if you know where to look. It's very strange, I don't think many of them even _like_ their jobs."

_____ _

__"City folks!" Lil Muff scoffs. "I'll never understand them."_ _

_____ _

__"Well, it's a good thing I don't expect you to."_ _

_____ _

You reach the post office and you haven't said a word; watching your kids talk amongst themselves _is_ a delight, though — the reminders that they have thoughts and feelings and dreams all on their own will never cease to be amazing. But it's all so sensitive, you could cough wrong and likely spoil the moment.

_____ _

__When you enter, a brute hemulen secretary mans the counter, and when she sees Snap she grunts as unenthusiastically as possible. "We're closing," she gruffs._ _

_____ _

__"I just need to send off some letters," Snap replies, tone balanced. "I'd like some stamps too, please."_ _

The woman scoffs. "So you consider yourself an exception to our hours? Haven't your folks taught you to read? Don't they steal enough signs to know what _words_ are?"

__"It won't be but a moment," Snap presses, knitting their paws atop the counter like they own it. "I have money."_ _

"Surprising," she mutters, and you seem to be the only one that doesn't like the sound of it. In fact, you don't like _any_ of what she said — you've heard it many times when you were Snap's age, but this sounds different. It _feels_ different.

__Snap is unbothered as you toil over it, though, and starts placing their letters and Ninny's onto the countertop. When you peer down at the envelopes you can see some addresses written in a delicate hand._ _

__"Who is Cashel?" you ask them._ _

"Ninny's boyfriend," Snap answers, fishing through their purse for coins. "He lives in the next town over."

"Ah."

 _Gross,_ Pluckey sneers, eyeing the hearts around the name. None of your children have ever been the sentiment, romantic type, and you are endlessly grateful for that; it saves a lot of fur from going too grey.

____

__Evident by a nearby ticking clock, the hemulen takes her time depositing the letters; when she comes back two minutes later with a stamp collection of sparrows, Snap has to explain that Ninny wants bluebirds, and they hold their ground even when the hemulen makes a very exhausted noise, shooting them a dirty glare as she returns to the back._ _

____

You play with some string in your pocket while you wait, and when you look outside yourself — everyone is _staring_.

A few heads turn away when they catch you staring back, but you can see the whites of rolled eyes as their gaze is pointed to your child, idly signing something. They're not _interested_ , per se, perhaps just...cautious. Like they've walked in with a dagger on their hip.

__You feel anger, hot as coal and tremendously blind, curl your lip and your throat gurgles a mild growl. Some notice and look away as quick as possible, while others aren't as swayed. There's a snarl that rides it way all up your face; if you could, you'd make even more of a fuss, but that'd be at the expense of the children seeing._ _

__As you suppress the urge to slice their faces into meat, Snap declares, "I'm done. We can go now."_ _

____

_Good,_ Pluckey says, sitting on a bench while their sister helps them up. _This is more boring than I thought it'd be._

____

"It's a _post office,_ " Snap retorts. "If you wanted a circus, then you've missed it by a month."

____

"There was a CIRCUS?" Lil Muff squawks. "You never tell us _anything_ fun in your phone calls!"

____

__"Because I didn't think you wanted to go!"_ _

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__"Why?? Because circuses are for babies?"_ _

____

__"Yes!"_ _

____

__She sticks up her nose and walks your way. "So just because we're fifteen and a quarter, we can't have fun anymore?"_ _

"I swear, we did _not_ come from the same batch because you just counted our age by _quarters."_

__"It's the superior counting system!" Lil Muff sharply looks up, perhaps to see if you'd ally with her, but instead she grows concerned. "Papa?"_ _

____

__

____

__"Hm?" The ghostly, red-hot tendrils are still disbanding from your vision, as you try to shake off the many, many Looks you can still feel. "What is it, dear?"_ _

__"Nothing, you just looked weird."_ _

__"I always look weird," you tease, guiding her towards the exit doors and gesturing for the others to join. Everyone is still staring. "As your father, it's important that I look weird as much as possible, so my face will get stuck like that."_ _

____

__

____

__"Uh, why?"_ _

____

__

____

__"So when you have children, they can look at me and say, 'Doesn't our grandfather just have the weirdest face?'"_ _

__Lil Muff makes a face. "I'm never having kids."_ _

__"Of course," you tut, smiling in such a way that makes her more bristled. But she isn't mad._ _

____

__

____

__If Snap ever paid a lick of attention to the eyes that follow them out the door, they don't even blink. They just shoulder past all of you to guide you back to Ninny's home wordlessly; by now the city has entirely swallowed the sunlight._ _

____

_-_

____

__Dinner is light, since Ninny needs to go shopping but her hours prohibit it. She apologizes, explaining that the food will have to be 'microwaved' (whatever that means) and you're gifted with a plate of hot mush and greens._ _

____

__

____

__"There's a grocery a couple blocks down," she explains, sweeping her evening dress up to her knees as she sits. "But I can hardly find time to _breathe_ , let alone get some decent meals."_ _

____

__

____

__"I'm happy to help if I'm needed, Ninny," you say. "The children too."_ _

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__

____

"You're my _guests_ ," she huffs, "It's not nice to ask guests to do your chores!"

____

__

____

__"But they're not guests," Snap chimes in from their spot across from you. "They're my family."_ _

____

__

____

__"Still the same!" Ninny insists. "I didn't ask you to be sweeping my floors the day you first arrived, did I? Or have you clean my dishes?"_ _

____

__

____

__"No," they mumble._ _

____

__

____

__"A guest is a guest," she repeats with a tint of resolute, and that's the end of it. You help Mildew cut up his soft meal as well, encouraging him to eat more than just the frozen peas Ninny had set aside just for him._ _

____

__

____

_So,_ Pluckey begins, _Miss Ninny, do you mind if I try blessing your house?_

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_____ _

____

Ninny looks at them like they're spoken in tongues. With reluctance, she turns to you and asks, "What did they say?"

____

_____ _

____

"They just asked if they could practice blessing your flat," you answer, blowing on a spoonful of mash. "They've been practicing some rituals with their grandmother."

"Oh! Yes, that's fine," she nods to Pluckey. "I'm sorry, I could never understand sign too well. Perhaps you could teach me a bit while you're here? I'm sure I'll get many students that will be grateful!"

Pluckey nods, eyes gleaming.

____

_____ _

____

" _Bleh!!_ " You'd taken a bite of your meal and now you heavily regret your choices; the wretched thing burns the roof of your mouth, and there's such a slimy aftertaste you've got no choice but to spit it into your napkin. "My word! What is this, poison??"

____

_____ _

____

Ninny blinks, narrowing her brows. "I thought you liked Flygande Jakob, Snufkinpappa."

____

_____ _

____

" _This_ is Flygande Jakob??"

____

_____ _

____

" _Yes!_ " She slams the end of her fork onto the table so abruptly that every ear shoots up, every spine frigid. "And if you've got a _damned_ problem with my meals, then I'd _thank_ you to remember the stress I'm under, sir!!"

____

_____ _

____

A few jaws go slack, and you just stare dumbfounded as Ninny steadies her breath beneath scrunched eyes. She clasps her bell in her paw, eliciting a hollow chime. Opening her eyes again, she's calm as waves when she says, "Snufkinpappa, if you'd _really_ like to go to the grocery and pick up a few things for me, I won't stop you."

____

_____ _

____

"Um," You're uncomfortable, and not even that hungry to begin with. For Moomintroll's sake you take a wheat loaf from the center bowl. "I'm happy to, if you want."

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_____ _

____

She nods. "My purse is hanging with Snap's; I can write you the directions on my shopping list. And, if you could pick up some palm wine while you're at it I'd be grateful."

____

_____ _

____

"Okay then." You stand slowly, as to not disturb the carpeting with your chair. You look to Pluckey and Lil Muff, asking, "When you're finished, can you set your brother to bed, please?"

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_____ _

____

They agree. "Sure, Papa."

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_____ _

____

When you're rounding the table you look to Snap, who is arranging their steamed peas into a pattern along their plate. "Would you like to come with me, Snap? We can talk along the way, if you'd like. Or we don't have to talk at all."

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_____ _

____

They don't look up. "I'm busy," they say.

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_____ _

____

"Very well. Would you like me to get you anything while I'm out?"

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_____ _

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"No thank you."

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_____ _

____

"Alright. But if you change your mind—"

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_____ _

____

"No, Dad. I have work."

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_____ _

____

"Oh."

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_____ _

____

"Yeah." Snap doesn't bother to prevent the horrid squeaking of the chair along the wood; with a piece of bread in their mouth and their half-empty dishware in their paws, they murmur, "Thanks for dinner, Ninny," through their teeth and walk off.

____

_____ _

____

You trade a helpless glance with Ninny, whom shrugs in a sort of _'What can you do?'_ notion. You frown in response, expecting something more encouraging, but she opens a discussion with Pluckey instead on what sort of herbs they brought.

____

_____ _

____

You take it that you're unneeded, again, and head for the coat rank where Ninny's purse sits.

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_____ _

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-

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____

The buildings above stand proud as the silhouettes of night trees; the house of repose settles over the town, with the windows speckled across the shadow's canvas, as bright and pale as buttermilk. Only the streetlamps provide a humble, flickering candlelight that you kindly tread beneath. The air is cold with that summer air which wafts through the town like it would a shallow cave, and it makes you burrow into your cardigan more than you'd expected.

____

_____ _

____

There are no crickets that chirp, nor fireflies that meld into starlight — or starlight, for that matter.

____

_____ _

____

It's quiet enough so you can hear the thumping of your heart, following the directions that Ninny had given. You read the list in the dark: loganberry jam, goat's milk, chives, window cleaner...nothing of interest. But it keeps your mind locked onto something, rather than roaming free.

____

_____ _

____

_Carton of eggs, canned soup, rosemary..._ It's been either denial, or the joys of being a backdrop that shelter you from the grey truth: being that you're unfamiliar here, and you're unwanted. You're unwanted by your own child; if that isn't the worst joke, then you don't know what is. And it _is_ your fault, even if this change has been coming for a while now. What's this going to help you, knowing this?

____

_____ _

____

_Apple butter, leeks,_ It hurts in an area foreign to you. You're not supposed to care what people presume of you. You can be everything to someone, or anything to anyone, and nothing to someone else. It's never mattered before, that you're a core to someone's misconduct. That has never been your fault — you didn't make it your fault.

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_Cinnamon sticks, thyme_. Moomintroll says that Snap has made their decision, just as he made his.

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_Olive oil..._

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_____ _

____

But, then again.

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_____ _

____

Before that goes anywhere it shouldn't, there's a crash that comes from the alley on your right. The sharp umbra of the streetlight provides you no leverage, and your night eyes can only strain so far ahead.

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_____ _

____

You're foolish to call out, "Hullo?"

Another timely crash ensues, following what sounds like footsteps fumbling over rubble. There's a muttered curse in the midst of the struggle, but it's too bleary with distance.

You're foolish, still, when your feet guide you towards the noise — even as you're still flinching at all the racket. But you've never been able to stop your feet once they've gotten an itch for a certain pathway. So here you are.

"Excuse me?" you call again, slightly bolder. "Are you hurt?"

As an answer, you hear, " _Ow!_ Blasted hell, stupid bags..."

When you reach a misshapen pile of gunk, you take note of a shuffling figure amidst the trash who is much too large to be any alleyway rat. They arch their back downward fluidly, picking at something that seems to be around their ankles.

"Pardon," you say. "Are you stuck on something?"

"Wh—?" The figure turns in a flash and you give them quite a jump; the golden flint of their eyes shine in the dark, narrowing.

Before you pry further, they race forward, stopping right at your face whilst keeping low to the ground. You take them in, as they do with you:

____

_____ _

____

They're a mumrik, no doubt about that; their face shape and nose makes you look like you're cut from the same cloth. Although, their fur color is a tad lighter than your own, and their skin is paler which draws attention to a very brown botch on their mouth — seeing it bend with their grimace you identify it as a birthmark. Their hair is wheaten and looks very frazzled like the end of a pulled rope, sprouting in all directions and ending right on their jawline.

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_____ _

____

You stare at each other for a long moment, and then they ask, "You're mumriken, aren't you?"

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_____ _

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If you had a penny for every time... "Yes. What are you doing in this ginnel?"

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_____ _

____

They sniff before reeling back, draping their posture in a way that laxes their spine. Their expression is cruel and guarded. "I could say the same thing. You look too clean to have been scavenging."

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_____ _

____

You tilt your head, then reach out when you see their uneasy pose. "If you're hurt, I might have some ointment—"

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_____ _

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They make a show of slapping your paw away, and a red cloak follows their swing like a closing curtain. "I don't want your _help_ ," they spit. "What're you anyway? A snufkin?"

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_____ _

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"I am," you nod, but you start to feel skeptical of that, too.

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_____ _

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"Puh. Have you got a name?"

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"I'm Snufkin."

"Yes, I noticed," they roll their eyes. "I asked for your _name. _"__

____

"That is my name?"

____

They bark out a laugh. "Really? Why?"

____

"I..." You think about it. "I don't know. Suppose I've liked it enough to keep it."

____

"But _why?_ " they repeat, looking incredulous. "Don't you get ogled for it?"

____

"Not any more than usual," you say. "What about you, then? Surely you're also not a Snufkin."

____

"Hardly, I'm Puck," they bow a little, but it seems more taunting than diplomatic. "And I might not be a girl, but you better not address me as an 'it'."

____

"I'd never call anyone an 'it'," you reply. "Do you live here?"

____

She laughs again; none of it meets her eyes. "What kind of mumrik lives _anywhere_? Aren't you also visiting for the full moon?"

____

"I'd forgotten there was one," you blink. "Is that important?"

____

"Oh, so you don't know, then," she says, with a tone you don't like — you're not elderly, but you're also clearly older than her. "Haven't you seen all the mumriken around? Shoplifting and all that? Ever wondered why that was?"

____

You remember that blur of red and ginger that had somersaulted over the rooftops at the marketplace. "Were you at the market earlier?" you ask her.

____

Puck makes another noise between her teeth — she has a gap in them, and it doesn't look natural. "So you've caught one of my performances. You were there too, what did you manage to steal?"

____

"I hadn't stolen anything!"

____

"Right," she drawls, "because you're civilized, and you're just so much _better_ than the lot of us, isn't it?"

____

"I didn't say that."

____

"Well, come on, a snufkin _named_ Snufkin?" She isn't smiling anymore, but still looks smug. "So you just blend in, I'll bet. No stares or jibes...must be real nice."

____

You hesitate, recalling those uncomfortable gazes at the post office. "Maybe I've gotten an eye or two..."

____

"Because they know you don't belong!" she concedes. "They treat you badly so you remember how great it is to be lonely — that's how everything works! If you think you're any different, they'll just remind you."

____

You frown. "That sounds horrible."

____

"That's the life of a mumrik," Puck snides, shrugging. Her smile returns alongside the glitter in her eyes. "So if you're not here for any gatherings, then what _are_ you here for?"

____

"I'm..." you almost lie upfront, but what's the harm in some truth? "I'm visiting my family for a bit."

____

"Your family?"

____

"Yes, most live in the valley but my child lives here."

____

"Are they all mumriks, too?" she asks, bewildered. "That doesn't seem right."

____

"Well, some are moomins—"

____

" _Moomins_?" She cackles this time. "What are you doing with a lot of moomins? Trying to play pretend?"

____

"What's this all about pretending?" you sigh in exasperation. You feel your feet itching again, but this time with the urge to retreat. Spinning around, you tip your hat and say, "I ought to go. It was nice to meet you."

____

"Have moomins taught you how to brown-nose, too?"

__"Cheerio."_ _

(You refrain from telling any awful jokes that yes, both you _and her_ have brown noses, but that would only worsen your chances of leaving unscathed.)

____

"Where are you going?" By some joke of the gods, Puck follows you, putting her paws behind your back like you're doing.

____

"I'm going shopping."

____

"Like a commoner, I see."

____

"And what if I am?"

____

She stares at you a moment. "Y'know I don't often mean this as an insult, but...you really don't belong anywhere, do you?"

____

"Can't you scurry off?" you sigh, turning to her properly. "I'm sure there's plenty of folks that could use a nightly pester."

____

She laughs again, it sounds awful. "You're funny. I like you."

____

"Well," you say, "suppose I'm just pleasant."

____

"That's also funny. I'll see you around, housecat."

____

She shoots up the side of a ladder, which you hadn't noticed hanging from the wall, and ducks beneath a boarded window that was probably meant to barricade pests like herself. You watch her tail disappear, frowning and allowing yourself to feel proper cross.

____

You think, _The NERVE_ , and the voice in your head sounds a lot like Moominmamma, or Moomintroll. 

_____ _

Alone, you retreat back to the list, walking underneath the streetlights — a part of you wants to stay in that light, basking in its cold and unpromising warmth. But you have things you need to do.

_____ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes this fic will literally just be snufkin getting called out by a bunch of angry ladies feat. an intersex teenager, dw


	2. my blood a borderless translation of errors in the reader's hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which snap subtly breaks a radio, a raven changes its eye color on whim, and everybody is getting more tired of snufkin's shenanigans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 got cut up bc of length/Reasons(TM) so now there's more chapters yayy

"So, wait, there are other snufkins that _aren't_ named Snufkin?" Moomintroll gawks; you envision his blue eyes stretching in awe. "That's absurd! It would be like I was named anything other than Moomintroll — what then? Should I be Snorktroll? Moomin-misabel? What mouthfuls."

You shrug the phone up into the crook of your neck, meanwhile assisting Pluckey with tying their smudge stick together: white sage, of course. "Precisely what I thought!" you exclaim. "I understand why one wouldn't want a names that gives too much away — but isn't it just easier?"

Moomintroll clicks his tongue. "There is nothing wrong with a name that tells one exactly who you are," he agrees. "If we have another child, we should call them Snufkin! It's a good name and I don't see a damn thing wrong with it."

Touched, you quip, "Why not Moomintroll?"

"But _I'm_ Moomintroll."

Your smile wanes. "No, that's not—"

"Oh, Protector of Beasts— One moment." Right then, Moomintroll's voice sounds like it's transmitted through a thick wall, as he's pulled away from the receiver to shout, "Moominpappa, quit scratching the walls! You've already left your mark on the clothespress, may you _please_ act civilized for a _minute!_ "

Cheating you of rubbernecking, Moomintroll returns in time to say, "Sorry about that. He's been a pain."

"Who?" you ask, dumbfounded. "Moominpappa??"

"Yeah, he's new and he lives in our walls."

"Pardon me."

"Well, not _new_ per se," Moomintroll continues, unperturbed. "We've known for a while that he's been living here, just never asked for his name. I think he presumed we didn't notice?"

You feel like you've stumbled onto a joke without a punchline. "I'm not following a single thing you've said."

"Well, I— Okay, so, story goes this creature thought to disguise himself as Pappa to infiltrate Moominhouse," Moomin explains. "But now that he's welcome, he's all but forgotten his name! So Pappa gave him his name for the time being, just until the poor thing can remember."

"And what were you saying about names before?"

"What I— Oh, but he's not a moomin. It's a nickname for the time being."

"While he lives in your walls."

"He prefers to, yes."

There's a pause from both sides, and you blink.

"I swear, you Moomins get into the darnedest things when I'm not around," you say at last.

"I could say the same for you!"

You chuckle, inexplicably fond, and a near-impalpable tenderness overtakes. These phone calls with Moomintroll, although with irregular schedules, are like bridges back to the valley, and to him. The moment he politely introduces himself to you, the vowels trapped in your throat flow like streamwater released from dams.

You like hearing nothing _but_ Moomintroll's voice sometimes — if and when sight fails, your ears give him a new shape. You think he sounds like honeysuckle, the octave of his hums thick with notes of lavender and cinnamon, and you can never explain this to anybody so it's a private admiration. You could never tell him how his laughs and stammers are a form, a scent, a caress, without being chuckled into humiliation.

Whatever physical boundaries and distance glaze over, like the plates of the earth are shifting so there isn't a distance to be missed at all. Story after story, questions and answers, it all meshes into a lovely thing. Oh, how easy winters would be if you could put bite-sized Moomintrolls in your front pockets, carrying them round till they're missed.

As a standstill arrives in the conversation, Moomintroll asks, "How is Snap doing?"

He was bound to ask, but still a damp cloud eclipses your sentiments. You say, "Fine."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Oh, just...they haven't talked with me much." You watch Pluckey dance along the outline of the flat, drawing wisps of smoke into the air like a conjuring. The air fills with a razor-crisp odor. "But they're still seeing their doctors, and Ninny is taking good care of them."

"As if we had any doubts," Moomintroll remarks, chuckling a bit. He sobers up rather quickly, and alarmingly, to press on, "And how are you?"

"I'm...well."

"Uh-huh."

"I wish they'd talk with me," you admit heavily, wringing your paws through the coiled telephone cord. "I understand why they can't, I do, I _know_ why. But...I can't shake this awful _unfairness_ I feel. It just...doesn't sit with me."

Moomintroll makes a noise half-muted by the phone, so you can't depict its meaning. "Let them adjust, Snuf. I know it _seems_ like they're stalling, but to them the hurt could still be new. You know how Snapdragon is — it's hard for them to adapt to new things...or feelings."

"I know."

"Have you _tried_ talking to them?"

"Only small talk. Nothing big." You shuffle your pads against the grainy carpet, transfixed on a dark stain. "Moomin, what if they—"

"Oh, I ought to go, sorry hon," Moomintroll sounds like he's craning his neck away from the receiver, onlooking something far off. "Snorkmaiden is coming up the path — ooh, she's red as a beet. Something to do with the wedding, no doubt."

Despite, you manage a ghost of a smile. "Hopefully all is well?"

"It better be! Or I'll be the one smacked for it," he sighs again, but he's not particularly ornery. " _And_ Little My has been giving me an ear over maid of honor, when that title _clearly_ belongs to ME."

"Of course, dear."

"I can call later?" Moomintroll opts, sounding apologetic. "This _is_ important, but with Floren and Moominpappa's tempers—"

"Go on, sweet," you interrupt him gently. "You're a busy troll, I don't need to hold you up."

"You don't hold me up, but thank you," he murmurs, and you imagine a dramatic drop of his shoulders in relief. "I love you! Tell Snap hello!"

"I will. I love you too."

You hear a click and the phone makes a light ding when it's placed atop its holder. You open your mouth for a great exhale, only to near-choke on the shrill tang of sage which has enveloped this room so strongly it burns the back of your mouth.

Pluckey is currently settling their half-burned bundle of herbs into an abalone shell, which they brought and have kept as a centerpiece of Ninny's table. Watching them, and how they don't need to strain to reach the middle of the table, fills you with an aftertaste of something bittersweet, like swallowing cough medicine.

"Pluckey?" You say, erupting from your stool to place it back. They turn. "I love you, dear."

Their mouth softens a bit, reeling back to sign, _Love you too, Papa._

It gets easier to say, the more often you say it, and you like that about love: small portions of it are digestible, and larger portions are easier to give away. You pat their hair as you leave the sitting area, leaving them to do whatever their witchy intuition calls for without your interference — not because the room is starting to smell _really_ dreadful.

-

It takes a fair amount of effort to walk to the bedroom door — there are no drawings or cutout posters strewn across the panels like their room at Moominhouse. But, that was always more of Lil Muff and Pluckey's input; apparent by how much messier their room has become since their sibling's leave.

It's very plain, but it feels like looking directly at your own coffin.

You knock, wait, and hear no frantic shuffling behind it. You knock again, calling, "May I come in?"

Reluctance, and then: "Okay."

You twist the cold doorknob and walk into a guest bedroom — at least, that's your first impression of it. The walls are politely cream-colored, the bedside tables polished and new; even the wireframe's coverlet appears to be pressed without a marking or dent in the thick sheets. It looks like no one has stepped in here for a long time. The bedspread has the same design as Moominmamma's ceramic pots.

To your right is Snapdragon, sitting at a workdesk with a transistor on a nearby shelf. They're bathed in a bright sunshine which streaks through white, ruffled curtains, as their window faces the light. The radio ebbs out a narration about gunshot wounds, which would be horrific but you're just glad that Snap is relishing in their murder mysteries again.

They keep their paw tucked beneath their chin, their writing paw cataloging something in curly handwriting achingly similar to their father's. A half-empty bottle of red cola sits atop a pile of books.

"Hi," you say, stepping in. "What are you doing?"

"Mm," is the answer for a good minute or so; as the transistor informs you that the suspect was never apprehended, Snap sets down their ballpoint and properly replies, "Homework."

"How astute," you appraise, smiling; your paw finds your pocket and trails across that darn necklace.

"I guess."

There's a stumble in the radiowaves, drawing your attention, but it's smoothed over quick enough. Your paw will not let that locket rest.

"What kind of homework do you enjoy doing?" you ask them.

Snap leans back a little to smooth their spine, their movements as stiff and posed like they're made of bisque. "No one enjoys homework."

"Well, I guess not. I've never even had homework, and I can't stand it."

"Yes."

"Do you have any friends you like to visit?" you try.

"Yeah."

"Any special friends?"

"Wh—" Snap releases their full, unadulterated glare on you, and you feel very intrusive very quickly. "Does it _matter_?"

"No, of course not!" You wave your paws around, and you should _not_ be this red and stunned but here you are. "But you _can_ tell me if there's any—"

"No!" they sigh with great impatience. "No, there is not."

It sounds like a parting message, and their body language illustrates this with how they swivel back and nearly break the pen in their grip, returning to work. You're clearly being expelled from the room, as much as one can without physical confrontation.

But your feet are tarred to the floor, and the locket grows heavier by the second. It has a voice in your head now, yelling _do something you ass, give your child a present, say you're sorry, hell say SOMETHING_ etcetera.

The whole experience is being tugged underwater and flailing to break the surface, yet all you do is flounder and look idiotic as you stand at the doorway, in your child's room which should have never been their room.

You try opening your mouth, reaching for your pocket again, and that's when Snap loudly puts down their pen and says, "You just want something from me." They groan, pummeling their face into their palms and their glasses fly up their forehead. "I _know_ you do, but— I'm _going_ to the wedding, and I'm not dating anybody. What else is there?"

"There's nothing!" You find your voice long enough to protest, blindly and maybe a bit too shrill. Quieter you add, "I want nothing from you."

"You want forgiveness."

"I—" Well... "Doesn't everyone?"

"Not the way you want it."

"Snapdragon," you sigh, dipping your head to squeeze the space between your red brows. "Snappea, I'm _trying_ my best to understand you. I really, truly am, but I just cannot read your mind. I'm sorry."

"And aren't you the luckiest thing."

You look back up, holding your elbow. "What does that mean?"

Nothing! It means nothing at all!" Snap throws up their arms this time, shouting to the ceiling. "Never has and never will!"

"Snapdragon—"

"I gave you what I can," they voice breaks and shatters, and now they're just dripping with weariness. They pull down their glasses, bending their spine onto the tabletop. "So just _please_ leave me alone."

You realize now, strangely, that the transistor is now swarming with static, like a choir of cicadas is trapped inside the box. Instead of switching it off, though, as it's wretched to your ears, Snap is unbothered and takes a swig of their cola. They don't look at you once.

"Well," you murmur. "I love you."

"Mhm." They reach up to smooth a lock of brown hair that'd escaped during their fit. _Why had you even come in here?_

You shut the door behind you.

-

Ninny's kitchen is a very bright pastel of robin's-egg which hurts your eyes every time you encounter it. The whole room is much too clean to compare to Moominmamma's rustic kitchen, the floors are so polished and the countertops are made of a very sleek white material. In addition — why would _anyone_ need a fridge that reaches the ceiling?

There's a smell of lemons and something warm in the oven, and the oven timer on the stovetop feverishly ticks down the seconds. Ninny has caked one countertop with flour, which collects on the floor beside her like thick snowflakes as she barrels her fist into a soft mountain of dough.

"What's all this?" you ask her.

Ninny looks up for a heartbeat; her hair is tucked beneath a polka-dot kerchief so no ginger strands get in the product. There's smudges of white powder on her upper cheeks like she'd wiped it there and forgotten to remove it.

She snaps back around, pummeling all her strength into the batter so it flattens. "There's a potluck I'm attending," she explains, her tone edging with every punch. "And Ms. Brittle thinks she can outshine _my_ raspberry danishes with her damned lemon squares? _Pah!_ I could use them as bricks and build an entire cabin from the ground-up!"

You look on with your arms uneasily crossed and heels bobbing. "So, danishes...?"

"And pound cake," Ninny huffs. "And cinder toffee if I have time."

"You're certainly going out of your way to make an impression," you remark, watching Ninny wipe her paws on her dress, leaving ghostly handprints on her hips.

She scoffs. "Well, so are you!"

"Meaning?"

Ninny takes a break from her incessant pastry-beating to proper turn, wiping herself with a wet washcloth. "Come on, Snufkin. Why else are you here?"

Her scathing method of questioning makes you very rotten; why must all the women in your life cut straight to matters?

"Is it wrong for me to visit?" you ask instead, instead of an answer.

She acts like you're on a different page of a script, looking tired to accompany. "Every creature has a right to be angry," she says, brisk.

"I know," you say, scrunching brows.

"And, every creature has a right to be angry with _you._ "

A grimace furls that you're unable to contain. "Okay."

Ninny walks over to her fridge, her heels sharp and her hair swishing from its unkempt bob. She opens the blue door and gestures to a side-compartment containing a maple-coloured drink, unopened. "Some applejack?" she asks.

"Oh, no, thank you," you shake your head. Ninny grabs the neck anyway and plots it on a clean counter, shutting the fridge door. As she reaches for some pint-sized glasses in the cupboard, her demeanor takes a shift. You watch the taut bones of her arm decompress, loosening her neck so her head falls.

She pours a drink and you can't depict her expression from beneath her long lashes. "They've worked very hard," she says, softer than you've ever heard her speak. "Just leave them be. Give them time to figure everything out, please — they're not used to thinking about themself."

It's rare for Ninny to give pleas rather than demands, lest she's desperate. And you double-take at that, how sad she seems; but you _know_. You've _known_ firsthand that there are sadnesses that cannot be abolished, but is it wrong to want to strip your children of them? To peel them off like orange rinds and fling them to the worms?

If you don't _try_ , then you'll be left with a tremendous guilt. You have never lived with guilt before, and you're certainly not fixing to start now.

Instead, you say, "I'm off to the market." Truthfully, you'll probably just return the locket to Jig's store and wander their store for hours and hours; best to get lost in that world, rather than this one.

Ninny makes like she could say more; her snake-green pupils brimming like there's a whole set of dialogue beneath them. But she tightens her mouth, nodding while sipping her drink. "Will the children go with you?"

"I hadn't asked," you reply, looking over your shoulder to the sitting room where you find your eldests lying on their stomachs, fixated on some strange glow and swinging their legs behind them. It strikes you then: the odd square device you'd mistaken for some drawer is actually a television set — a flanellette had been covering the screen and is now slung over an armchair.

"That'll rot your eyesockets if you watch for too long," you call over. Nobody looks in your direction.

"Whatever you say, Papa," Lil Muff responds blankly, her muzzle on her paws.

"Ugh," you flit a disapproving Look at Ninny. "Must you have let my children touch that wretched device?"

She pours herself another glass of the brandy, having downed the first one. "I'll turn it off as soon as they get a taste for brains," she says idly.

"That's not funny."

"Who said I was teasing?"

You give a disgruntled 'puh!' and watch a smirk curl Ninny's lips around the glass.

Leaving the kitchen, you stand cross-armed beside the children to get their attention — which you only receive after the cartoon rat onscreen is intercepted by an advertisement for cereal. "If you'd like to come with me to the marketplace, you can," you tell them.

Pluckey and Lil Muff look between each other before deciding, _No, we'll stay here._

"Oh?"

 _Too many noises,_ Pluckey explains with a half-frown. _We don't really like it._

"Yeah, and everyone looks at us funny," Lil Muff asserts.

There's a weird twinge, because you painfully sympathize; perhaps, if born now, you too would enjoy the comfort of a mind-numbing animation than the bustling outdoors. You nod in understanding, giving a quiet "Alright."

On the couch, Mildew is nestled up into a throw as thick and curly as sheep's wool; his breath is soft and even, with his glasses still smushed on his face. You venture over, careful so you don't trip over anyone, and bend down to kiss the space between his ears and his antennae. Gingerly you remove his spectacles to place on the coffee table.

"Can you get wine-gummies while you're out?" Lil Muff asks, craning her neck to look at you.

"I'll see," you respond, walking over to the front door. You pop one of the pandrops on the tram in your mouth, biting it prematurely for an explosion of mint of your tongue. "No sweets before dinner, dears."

"Yes, Papa," they say in unison, enamored with their show once more.

The door is easier to close this time.

-

There is too many people.

The wound of a crowd has swelled into a near-infectious presence, making your hold on your surroundings a lot harder. Your guts feel all tangled up, not unlike your old shoestrings, and everything feels so clotted up and yet so far away, all at once.

It doesn't help either that these city folks wear such bright colors — the kind that Ninny proudly displays — and chatter boisterously like everyone must know what they're thinking. Proud bastards, the lot of them.

Your overtaxed senses are blind to the direction you're taking — and where you've just been. This city is a labyrinth or mirrors and voices and clicking heels, and you'd be _damned_ if you were to approach another city in your lifetime. Thank heavens they're so hard to come across...

— _This is impossible._

You're stumbling aimless, seeking sanctuary before you could very well lose your lunch; your nose is clotted up with the different smells and it's culminating at the root of your sternum, your tongue slick with building saliva. You need to _get out._ Whatever that means, you just need _out_.

There's a dark tent tucked beneath some stands, looking unwelcome and lonely. At the least it could provide some shade for your burning eyes to adjust.

It's enough for now.

Receiving some cross words as you duck beneath armpits and alike, you flounder your way inside, and the blast of very cool air makes you shrivel up like a slap in the face. But, you can breathe. Your tongue is so raw from the melted mint that openly panting gives your mouth the taste of icebergs.

_Alright, then._

—So, where are you now?

Looking around with your adjusted vision, the interior is very empty and only lit by a few bulbs of string lights. There are a couple places to sit, though, and the couches are thickly-plush with patterned throws coating them. The ceiling is silk and pinched in the middle like the gentle opening of a morning glory, and the violet hue makes it remarkably dark, contrasting the blinding sun outside.

The curtain door closes behind you with a sharp gust, and the thrum of citylife dulls.

"A customer!" Someone gives you this awful spook which ruffles your tail, and atop a lead pillar, a raven sits where a candle is supposed to be. They peer down at you, twitching in the way that birds do; its eyes glimmer like two bronze coins had been sewn there.

You turn around to call, "Anyone here?"

"You had the right idea the first time," the voice says; it's tetchy and awful to listen to, pinpricked with a troublesome undertone. A set of nails graze your shoulder when the raven lands itself on your shoulder, and you start.

They open a wing to groom the underside, coolly, and open their pointed beak: "A traveller, I presume? You smell awful for a commoner."

"Thank you," you say, crimping your lip.

"I'm Tasket," the bird greets. "Are you a snufkin?"

"Everyone asks that," you sigh, angling your chin so the bird can watch your performance of exasperation. "I've been asked so frequently. Perhaps I'll change it tomorrow, what then? Maybe I won't have a name at all!"

Tasket laughs — croaky, loud, and everything you've expected a raven to laugh like. Their chest bounces with delight, eyes glittering. "Clearly you haven't been here for more than a day! All aboard the welcoming wagon, then!"

"I'm delighted."

"Would you like a reading?" Tasket, thankfully, flings themself off your shoulder and onto the crested rail of a nearby chair. Their gaze never strays from yours, burrowing into your skull. "We haven't had many visitors, and I'm sure it'd lift my friend's spirits."

"Who else is here?" you ask, looking around.

"You think I can lug this tent around with these?" Tasket spreads their wings. "Tisket is in the back, I bet they'll be pleased to see you."

"Me? Why come?"

"Well, you're a snufkin!" they exclaim happily. "We don't see many that often."

You're still unsure, but don't protest so you stand and wait, not even trusting the chairs. Tasket flies off to another room — an opened flap you hadn't seen before, due to the shadows. It isn't a second too late before a joxter appears from the darkness, with Tasket perched on their head rather than their shoulders.

You remember meeting your father, and the first thing you _saw_ was his eyes — they were so ferocious, if he gave them a flicker of emotion they'd look like the heated blue gas of fire. He kept them tame, though, but they were bright and open when they first laid eyes on you.

This joxter is not that Joxter. You look at their frazzled black hair bowed around their sharp, long features, their jaw outstretched to show the maw of glinting fangs. You're unraptured by the age beneath those icy-blue eyes: the effect it has, like looking at a dusted relic which holds so much history behind it. Beneath the languor of them is a violent reproach, ready to spring or sprint.

This joxter also has a more thin nose than you or your father's, and keep their skeletal figure wrapped in layers and layers of mummified cloaks. It tears near the bottom to reveal a dark underdress and bare feet with claws that scratch across the floor.

"Have a seat!" Tasket chirps. "We're very excited to meet you."

You see a table decorated with jars, candles, stones, and a deck of cards, so it feels right to sit there. To be this intimate in a dark room with a fellow mumriken is the hybrid reaction of seeing a watchtower: relieving from a distance, terrifying up close.

Tisket reaches with gnarled, black fingers to the deck, shuffling them accordingly. It's achingly quiet which gives you time to admire the decor some: a crooked, handmade bowl containing an assortment of amethyst and rose quartzes; a golden goblet which holds a tinier you, inverted. So much of this is familiar from the previous psychic tents you've visited that it's a near-comfort.

"Tell us about yourself, Snufkin," Tasket presses, hopping forward on the table.

"Well," you begin, "I'm visiting town for— good lord!" You nearly explode from your seat to see that the raven's eyes have shifted from bronze to the same blue of their partner. "What on earth happened to your eyes??"

Tasket just chuckles. "My dear friend can only speak Farsi, so I often take the liberty of helping them translate."

"Okay," you drawl uncertainly, drawing your gaze from the bird to the joxter. "And...how does this help?"

"Hmm," they ponder aloud, bringing a feather to their beak. "Do you know of cars?"

"Hardly."

"Well! There are two seats in the front of the car: driver and passenger! Both equal, the difference being: one holds the wheel and steers."

"Okay," you repeat. "So the raven is a car."

"No, no, I just mean that Tisket _is_ here," they gesture to themself. "They're just listening. If they'd like to impose, they're free to."

"So it's not," for lack of better terms you emote with open paws before deciding, "a possession, of sorts."

"Yes and no."

You frown. "May we move on?"

"Certainly!" Tasket (probably??) says. "Do you have something on your mind?"

You look at Tisket, because they're cutting the cards still and it's presumably polite to speak to them directly. "That depends, what reading do you suppose is best for me?"

"Sounds like you have more than a few questions," Tasket remarks.

"I always have questions."

"Hm," their tone is a little patronizing, if you're honest. "Then let's narrow this: what is the most _pressing_ matter to you right now, Snufkin?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why are you here then?"

You tie your paws together, resting them hard against your stomach. "I'm here to see one of my children. They live here, in town, with a friend. I wanted them to come home with me for a wedding."

"And this troubles you?" they press.

"Maybe." You pause, recalling something specific. "Have you heard about this new moon?"

"Yes." Their voice shifts.

"Are you joining...whatever that is?"

"No."

"Alright..." you find great interest in the velvet pentagram rug covering the tabletop. "Perhaps a simple third-spread would be best. There's a great deal I'd like to have simplified right now. I've never done well with large chunks of anything."

Tisket looks up, nodding slowly. They summon their little friend back onto their head before scattering the tarot cards across the surface, staring hard as if to say, _Go on, then._

You fold in your lips, hovering a finger over the swarm of cards like they're fleeting minnows in a pond. One false move and they could slip out from under you.

Moomintroll once asked you why you were more inclined to tarots than, say, astral readings. You told him that you thought of their interpretations as mere suggestions, as give-or-takes. You've never been good with demands. 

"I know this is...broad," you begin, steadying your paw. "But I want to know what the problem _is_."

"In relationships?" Tisket pries. "Be precise here."

"Hm," you stall, considering. "There is an issue with family, I'd say." Yes. That seems right. "It's like a shift has occurred, I can't understand anything but what I've been given, which isn't much. But I do know it's my fault."

"For the shift?"

You nod.

"Large problems are just smaller problems meshed together," Tisket explains. "So it's impossible that you're the bigger fault, lest you're malicious. Family problems are often best viewed as stepping-stones instead of boulders."

A churning wave of more and more shame, slapping against your ribcage, crashes and recedes. You mumble, "Maybe."

Finally, you pick a dead-center card: your kehter. You press it down without flipping it, and Tisket nods in approval. It's easier to pick the next two with the first one down: your hakma (farthest left), and your benaugh (near the right, a bit). You set them accordingly, and a silence ensues to lend water to your decisions.

"Best of luck," the raven snickers, but all in fun. "Would you like to do the honors?"

You would. You pinch the middle card and flip it sideways. Ten of Cups, reversed — already off to a terrible start.

"Well," you murmur to yourself, surprised.

"Troubles?"

"I've never gotten this card before," you admit.

"Not a family lad? Well, that's expected of a mumrik." Tisket turns over the next card for you with their long index claw, revealing another upside-down image: The World, apparent by the lady and her wreath. "Seems there's a door that needs closing in your life. The earth element suggests that your whole world feels upheaved — something to do with the torn relationships, no doubt.

"Ten of Cups refers to disharmony in a unit, as you know — as a result, you might be feeling more distant in areas you were formerly comfortable in. Meadows feel like minefields. Of course, the water element refers to emotional turmoil, as well, which makes sense given the loss of sanctuary."

You open your mouth. Close it, swallowing.

"And the solution..." they turn the final tarot and you're met with: "Five of Swords. My, all your cards are reversed! And with chaffing elements, too— it's a good thing you'd come, Snufkin."

"But what does that _help?_ " you snap, feeling cornered and deathly exposed. "Six of Swords reversed is just forgiveness — I have received none of that!"

Tisket cocks their head — and you know for certain that they're speaking through the raven because their voice smooths over like rocks in riverbeds. "The cards only speak for yourself, not for others. _You_ want this era to be over so you can move on. _You_ would like to receive forgiveness. But have you considered that to be a sword in itself?"

They stroke Tisket with the ridge of their finger, preening their oil-sheen feathers. "Sometimes the greatest weapon we have is listening — provide an open ear for your family's troubles, look for middle-grounds. You're a father, after all, and it's important to find both understanding and compromise. Coexisting _is_ possible."

Best thing to do now, is cover your disappointment with a timely cough. You stand, and the chair tugs some of the carpeting along with it.

"You're unhappy with your readings," they (one of the two, you've no idea which) surmises rather brusquely. With a swift arm Tisket gathers the cards back to the center in a neat pile.

"I'm not unhappy," you argue, reaching for coins to pay with — and brushing against the stupid locket again. "Thank you for your service. How much do I owe you?"

"From one mumriken to the next, don't worry about it."

Exhaustion comes over like a cloud. "Well, guess I'm off."

"If you wish," they say. Tasket's eyes revert back to their regular bronze, and they ruffle their feathers as though shaking off an itch. "And if you do visit the trees on the full moon, tell Macintosh hello. He's rather fond of my friend."

This gets them a gentle swat, and they cackle again before they perch atop Tisket's chair.

"I haven't a clue what that's all about anyway," you tell them. "Sounds like codswallop to me."

"Ha! Maybe," Tasket trumpets. "But we're all just trying to find a home somewhere, aren't we?"

"I thought that wasn't mumriken," you retort pointedly.

"We all came from _some_ place, drip," they challenge, and Tisket looks up too from their shuffling. "Sure it's confusing, but you mumriks are a melting pot of cultures — country over country over country. We're blurred with time, so it lets us fill in the gaps."

"And so we deal cards?"

"And so _we_ deal cards," A feather flits from joxter to raven, substituting an arm gesture. "It's just mumriken for us to adapt, however that may be."

"But that's not tradition," you argue, "that's just survival."

"Ah, works for us anyway," Tasket shrugs. "We got tired of looking all over for scraps, so we're just fine with what we have now. We make our own histories, we have no choice!"

"Right then." This is leaving you in an even worse mood; if you wanted to be crabby and rotten you'd just simmer out in the boiling sun and turn pink. Tipping your cap, you're off again with a particular stomp in your gait, which you hope is unnoticable.

"Shalom aleichem!" Tasket crows (pun, indeed, intended) and you double-back to see Tisket standing, and the raven excitedly flapping their wings goodbye. "Come back again! We'll miss you! Bon voyage!"

Tisket just waves, but there's a very small smile that shows their upper teeth a bit — or maybe it's a trick of the light.

"Thank you," you murmur, and you're surprised to find that you're being sincere. You hesitate before sweeping the curtains away, flinging yourself back into the horrid world.

The smallest blessing of the hour: when you open your eyes against the sky, there is no sun. There is only noise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [snuf and snap's relationship, Colorized](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K63sxW6tmys)


End file.
